


Arrivals

by CorsetJinx



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, the Distant Whaler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-07-10 20:12:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorsetJinx/pseuds/CorsetJinx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First, second and third impressions - and gaining something precious at the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrivals

The floorboards creaked no matter where one put their weight, and if it hadn’t been for the unfamiliar tread he might have dismissed it. As it was, he found himself doing the sharpest about-face he could recall at the sound – blade in hand as his brain finally processed the look of mild surprise the unmasked man was giving him. A man that, Jordan was considerably sure, had not been there moments before.

It happened, sometimes. With people on missions or gathering intel it was almost unheard of for their entire group to be all together in a single setting – which meant that new members sometimes caused a bit of a stir when they showed up.

Like this one – the lighter gray of his leathers telling him that the man was ranked as a novice, but even with that he wasn’t relaxing his guard.

“Who’re you?” Jordan ground the words out carefully, giving the newcomer a once-over to check for drawn weapons. There were none, only the standard sword at his belt and the wrist bow attached to his arm. The other’s mask was cradled in one of the stranger’s gloved hands, held lightly to his chest like the nobles did when they were about to do one of those ridiculous bowing gestures that amused nobody (or at least not him).

“Kent.” The stranger supplied, voice slightly accented and it sounded as though his vowels might be rounded. He smiled as though they were friends, not like Jordan was still holding a weapon that took up half the space between them. “William Kent.”

“Good to know.” From Kent’s lighter hair and the odd color of his eyes, he’d have guessed the man had strong Tyvian blood in his family. Certainly the other was tall enough for it, at least a couple of inches more than himself. He pushed the thought aside for another time, tone still just shy of abrasive. “What’re you doing here?”

“It appears that I passed Master Daud’s initial inspection.” Kent’s expression didn’t change much, just a slight relaxation of the friendly smile into something softer – ambient neutrality rather than amusement. “He gave me leave to return to base until I am needed.”

There was something lacking in the taller man’s tone that got under his skin, but Jordan didn’t feel like trying to identify it when they were in the middle of a staring match. He thought, vaguely, that it sounded like the sort of measured evenness Zachary might get along with – but Zachary got on with everyone, so that didn’t account for much.

“Don’t just spring up on people like that. There’s people faster than me that might actually hit you.” Finally, Jordan relaxed his hold and returned the blade to its holster – rolling one shoulder out of habit once his hands were free.

Kent nodded, blinking for the first time since their conversation began.

Maybe that was it, the man didn’t blink enough like a normal person.

“I shall endeavor to keep that in mind. My apologies.”

He felt himself shift his opinions, leaning more towards the suspicion that the newcomer might have highborn blood if he talked like that. Rather than comment, he simply inclined his head. “Sure.”

With that, he nixed the chance for conversation by blinking out of the room and onto the training grounds – dismissing the grunt of annoyance that came from the right, his sudden arrival making one of his fellows alter his chosen course while toting an armload of supplies.

“Watch it.”

“You too.”

-

She wasn’t sure how to take this change of events. Daud had said that she would have a partner for this mission (because just sending one of them to any place that even hinted at the Abbey’s presence was too insane even for their leader) but this was….

Scattered pieces of Overseer’s music boxes caught the light, most of them blackened to shrapnel after the tossed grenade made short work of them. Among the mess, pieces of bodies smoked faintly.

Daud had ordered the destruction of the boxes, true, but…

“Did you have to use the grenade?” Terry hated the note of hesitance in her own voice, but the sight before her was jarring enough that she felt the need to ask.

The novice’s mask slowly turned towards her, tilting ever so slightly to the left in a manner that reminded her of a bird. She wasn’t sure if it was the curiosity the gesture implied that made her want to shift in unease or the complete straightness of the other Whaler’s shoulders. Daud had mentioned his name – Kent, if she recalled correctly, but the most they had exchanged during the two hours they’d been together had been rendered to soft, curt instruction and planning.

“It was so they would not be able to salvage the parts. Do you find it unsatisfactory?” The mask muffled the soft lilt of the other’s voice, but she heard him just fine.

“Simple sabotage wouldn’t have done the job?” _> And spared them the presence of four dead_, she thought.

Kent’s head returned to an upright position, briefly turning to regard his handiwork. When he spoke again it was just as soft as she’d heard before – matter-of-fact in tone and unhurried. “These men could have undone it. It was their job to assemble the boxes and be certain they would play.” The lenses of his mask turned towards her again, reflecting a bit of the weak light from the outside. “I apologize for not discussing it with you beforehand.”

That… well, the sentiment was nice but Terry wasn’t sure what to do with it.

“You’re familiar with Overseer music boxes then?” She kept her tone level, gesturing to the twisted bits of metal and what would have been gears.

He nodded, used the tip of his blade to indicate part of an almost-intact frame. “These are assembled from ores in Morley rather than the more common materials of Tyvia. Morley ore is harder to find – yet it is,” he stopped himself, arm supporting the blade slackening for a briefest moment before he pushed whatever had made him pause aside. “It was believed that using ore from an Isle reputed for its heretic worship may provide a means to strike at the source itself, among other such pursuits.”

Terry wondered at that, what else the boxes might have been intended for if not just the hunting and torture of those who did not fit the Abbey’s ideal of a supplicant or heretic to be punished. She shook the thought off, scanning the workshop with Dark Vision to be sure no other threats remained. There were none – however the amount of objects that showed up in a quiet green shade against the sepia-toned world surprised her a little.

Blinking the power away, she sent Kent a sidelong glance through her mask’s lenses. “Other than possible supplies, is there a reason you picked this end of the building?”

Something in the slope of his shoulders suggested an emotion close to sheepishness before it was smoothed away. “It provided the route to getting rid of the boxes as well as those in charge of their construction. I apologize for keeping that to myself.“

“Next time at least mention your plan before filling out your own agenda.”

He inclined his head, not commenting on the brief sharpness of her tone.

With a creak of leather and the faintest of sighs, Terry braced herself to blink away.

-

His first meeting with the Whaler called Cis takes place in the early hours of the morning when most others are sensibly asleep. He pauses in his little self-made game of tossing a ball and tethering it back to himself once it reaches the height of its arc, testing his reflexes and reach with the fascinating power. It _is_ fascinating to him, these abilities earned from his new leader, the Knife, the assassin Daud. His fellows from even two years ago would have burned him for such – and admittedly for much, much less.

But things are… oddly lax, here in Dunwall. He’s noticed that much in his brief time on this Isle, capital of the Empire.

The ball narrowly misses the other Whaler’s mask when he tethers it back to himself, catching them both by surprise – Cis’ darker leathers marking them as a senior Whaler and so they blend in remarkably well in the pre-dawn gloom. Their head turns to him once they’ve recovered and he thinks he can sense the curiosity behind the hard plastic and glass of the lenses.

After all, he’s in shirtsleeves and it is apparently one of the colder months – though to him the temperature is just bracing enough to be enjoyable. If he were home, this weather would see people flocking the streets to shop, mingle, and simply be.

“My apologies. I didn’t know anyone else would be up.” He tucks the ball away, glad that the sphere is just large enough to rest comfortably in his palm – easy enough to tuck into a pocket or a pouch. Though the expression doesn’t feel quite right on his face, he tries to offer a smile towards his senior fellow. “I can take my leave, if you should wish it.”

“No need. I didn’t expect anyone either.” Within the mask, the filters strip their voice of most nuances that might give away an accent, unless it was particularly strong. Whatever else, the other Whaler didn’t seem bothered by his presence – choosing to sit on a low shipping crate that seemed to double as a chair of sorts on the makeshift balcony.

Their head turned towards him again, elbows braced on knees as they interlaced their fingers. “Kent, wasn’t it?”

“Indeed. Unless I miss my guess, you are Cis?” A distant part of him wonders if they think him strange, sitting out here, tossing a ball to pass hours that might be spent sleeping instead.

“You’ve got it.” Their head inclined, their shoulders seeming all the more broad due to the shadows around them. If both of them were standing, he might prove a little taller – not that it mattered.

He sat back, staring out into nothing rather than leaning back to try and spy what stars might be present. Silence stretched between them, broken only by the sounds of the Flooded District around them.

“Someone take your cot? It happens to new members.” The question drew him out of the blank slate he’d eased into, coaxing him into meeting their reflective gaze.

“I’m afraid I don’t sleep much. There may have been a place free, but I’ve been here for some time.” Since shortly after the evening meal in the mess, he supposed – thinking about it now for the first time. He sensed that this surprised his companion, the faint creak of leather announcing a shift in posture.

“So long as you’re rested before a job.” Moments had passed after his statement, long enough for him to slowly start to unfocus again, but all he could detect in their tone was a faint, if well-meant, warning.

“I shall keep that in mind, thank you.” Inclining his head appeared to be satisfactory enough, and they said nothing else for a time. Eventually, Cis stood and bid him an early morning, their voice soft in the emerging light. He wished them much the same, finally lifting his mindless stare from the only window thus far to have its full panes of glass.

Weak, murky tones of light were turning the stained walls around him into lighter shades of gray – others would be waking up around this time, he imagined. Or sleeping in, if their own positions allowed it.

Rather than toss and tether the ball again, he settled for watching the thin sunbeams fight for purchase on the dilapidated walls, waiting for the first sounds of morning activity.

-

“So, think we got them all?” Zachary sounded deceptively cheerful, just behind him and to his right. He could hear the light tread of the other Whaler’s boots on the floor, only half-mindful of the tacky blood coating the boards.

He peered at what Dark Vision was showing him, briefly wondering if the Void had decided to play some trick.

“Zachary.” The word was enough to halt his companion, sudden silence filling the room when the other man had been muttering something a moment before. He only takes several measured steps towards the door, and then out, heading for the shape of yellow that shouldn’t be there.

The man behind him doesn’t speak, following with the same kind of stride – weight evenly distributed so as to make the least possible amount of noise.

“Hatter?” The brunet’s voice is pitched low, certainly not enough to carry past the walls that have arrested his own attention.

“A child.” He says simply, surprising himself by actually _feeling_ something at all.

_“what?”_ Comes the hiss, but he waves for the man to hush and focuses on tracking the thin blue streak of a wire tucked out of normal sight.

He hadn’t known that the Hatter gang used such devices, but Zachary is more well-versed in the habits of the leading gangs of Dunwall and doesn’t seem to be overly surprised. Safe to assume that it shouldn’t be entirely unexpected then, he supposes.

The wall shakes as it separates, dust and bits of rot falling from it as it shakily slides away to reveal what must have been intended as a safe room at some point. He can vaguely taste the musty air on his next exhale and wonders how the figure inside has endured it for so long.

Curled in on themselves, it’d been easy to believe the person to be a child – but as whoever it is straightens up in fear, he can see that they aren’t a child at all. Not quite an adult, likely somewhere in their middle teens. Unless the youth of Gristol somehow age differently from those in Tyvia.

“Shit.” Zachary mutters, no longer behind him but to the side, and together they do block out the only means of escape.

The boy is staring at them, frozen in place from under a cover he’s fashioned of a table and some blankets; wide, dark eyes flick between himself and his assigned partner and from the darkness of the boy’s skin he doubts that the little one is Gristolian.

Daud had never said anything about a stowaway. It was only supposed to be a simple clearing out of Hatters grown over-confident and believing themselves out of their leader’s reach after messing up one of their contracts. Before the plague, the house must have been in fine condition – Draper’s Ward had been well-off enough that the boy before them might have been a servant, or someone’s illegitimate child.

He is turning over the idea of what to do when Zachary decides for him.

“Hey.” The broader man moves slowly, bit by bit so that the boy can read his every motion and his voice is the gentlest he’s ever heard. “We aren’t here to hurt you.”

The part of him that still remains after severing ties in his homeland says not to make such promises, but he keeps silent as Zachary carefully enters the little room. The boy, already tense, shrinks deeply in on himself and shifts back under his makeshift cover – in this sort of enclosed space he can hear the quickened, if a little strained, breathing.

Zachary stops. And then he breaks protocol by reaching up to remove his mask and take off his gloves.

He can only stare at the back of the man’s head for a moment, until he understands.

The boy is young, frightened, and presumably has been isolated for a prolonged period of time. It is likely he heard the sounds of combat outside, and if this is the first sight he’s had of other people since hiding himself away then the reaction they’re receiving is an understandable one.

Zachary crouches, balancing his weight on the soles of his feet and stays there – occasionally murmuring something to the figure he can just barely glimpse.

“What do you intend to do, should he come out?” Pitching his voice to match the other’s, he watches the brunet’s shoulders for any sign of a response. He’s curious, already certain that Zachary has no intentions of just leaving the boy behind.

It does sound cruel, even to him.

“Take him with us.” Zachary’s response is offhand, as if it were obvious.

He finds himself certain that Daud is not going to like this. Perhaps even less than his previous leader would have, back in Tvyia.

Reaching up, he undoes the buckles holding his own mask in place and carefully draws it off; musty air that tastes strongly of age and mildew touching his warm skin. Zachary lowers himself down until he’s resting on the floor, chest to the boards, face turned towards the boy in his hiding place. His companion has switched dialects again, presumably to find one the child might recognize.

When the brunet utters something that could possibly be Serkonan the boy shifts. Encouraged, Zachary tries again – though he doesn’t know exactly what his companion is saying he knows that the words are soft, nearly kind.

Minutes pass, but eventually a dark head pokes out and the boy responds.

His accent is thick, but Zachary appears to understand what is being said. There is nothing to do but wait and strain his ears for any sound beyond the low conversation before him. Dark Vision reveals nothing besides the bodies cooling in the other room and he wonders how long the child has been hiding here, managing to go unnoticed and not starve.

It’s cut short by a rail-thin figure that proves to be the boy emerging from his cover, Zachary slowly pushing himself up as the boy does. Dark brown eyes look between them again, but Zachary just smiles – wide and sure.

He feels something shift in his chest, a trickle of feeling that’s still surprising at times.

There’s nothing left but to see this through then, and weather whatever Daud’s reaction will be.


End file.
